bayou tonight

  PREQUEL TO GOTTA BE BAYOU

  BADGES OF THE BAYOU

  ERIN NICHOLAS

  contents

  Bayou Tonight

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  More from Erin’s Bayou World!

  About Erin Nicholas

  Copyright 2022 by Erin Nicholas

  All rights reserved

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Editor: Lindsey Faber

  bayou tonight

  She’s so not his type. But he’s been thinking about her for almost a year now.

  He needs to figure out a way to get over her.

  Though kissing her at their friends’ wedding probably isn’t it…

  FBI agent Spencer Landry is looking for a sweet, bubbly sunshine at home to balance out all the darkness he sees in his work.

  Investigative journalist Max Keller is anything but.

  Oh, she’s gorgeous, and funny, and smart. But she’s also quirky and sarcastic, loves crime scenes, and can’t bake a brownie to save her life.

  They’re never going to work out.

  He really should stop kissing her.

  So this will be the last time.

  Maybe.

  A prequel to Gotta Be Bayou, book one of the Badges of the Bayou series!

  one

  “Why do I want you so much?”

  Spencer was aware that the words he said gruffly to Maxine Keller sounded drunkenly slurred. Leo Landry’s moonshine had that effect on mouths and tongues. But it also worked as a sort of truth serum.

  The clear, potent, homemade concoction that could be used to unstick frozen windows, and as an antiseptic on wounds, was also delicious and could make a man spill all of his deepest, darkest desires.

  That was no secret. People knew it would happen before they took even the tiniest sip. But they kept sipping.

  Spencer should have known better.

  “Because I’m clever, witty, bold, and beautiful?” Max asked him.

  She was all of those things. For sure. But he frowned as he studied her face, including the tiny, mischievous smile tugging at her lips.

  “I don’t think that’s it.”

  She lifted a brow.

  But seriously, he met clever, witty, bold, and beautiful women all the time.

  Okay, maybe not daily, but often.

  Max had deep red hair, and big green eyes—that often flashed at him with irritation, as a matter of fact—and smooth, creamy pale skin, and amazing breasts.

  Yeah, he was a breast guy, and this girl had perfect ones.

  She was gorgeous, no doubt about it, and he’d had the impression from the first time he met her that she didn’t even know it.

  But no, it wasn’t all of that. Whatever was drawing him to her was something he couldn’t put his finger on. Something he almost understood, but couldn’t quite define.

  And it was making him fucking nuts.

  It was why he’d pulled her away from the wedding reception going on inside the building behind her and why he now had her alone in the shadows. He needed to figure this out. Because he’d been thinking about her for months, even though he’d tried not to. And he’d almost convinced himself that whatever he’d felt a year ago had disappeared.

  Then she’d shown up at this wedding, with her hair up in some sexy twist, wearing a black dress—who wore black to a summer wedding anyway?—and the air had been sucked out of his lungs and he’d thought, well, fuck.

  “You’re…different,” he finally said.

  Damn Leo’s moonshine. Different wasn’t the right word. But Spencer couldn’t come up with the correct one.

  “I am,” Max agreed. “Why do you seem puzzled by that?”

  “I'm not puzzled. I'm… annoyed.”

  “Annoyed?”

  “Yes, annoyed.”

  He reached up to cup her face, her silky, warm hair falling over the backs of his hands. He leaned in and nuzzled her temple. “Why do I think about you all the time?”

  But he didn’t give her a chance to reply. He kissed her instead, moving his mouth over her forehead, where he placed a kiss in the center, then he kissed down her nose to her lips.

  Heat shot through his body, settling low in his gut, and he pressed closer.

  She didn’t protest. She opened her mouth with a tiny sigh that made his cock jerk, she gripped his shoulders and arched her lower body against his as he leaned in, and she met his tongue with a bold stroke.

  She was delicious. She tasted like the same moonshine that was muddling his brain. But her soft lips, the hot, wet inside of her mouth, the way her tongue met his without hesitation, and the way she leaned into him made him feel like the moonshine was burning through his veins.

  He shouldn’t be surprised by her reaction, he supposed. She'd come outside with him willingly.

  They'd known each other for nearly a year, though he hadn’t seen her in several months. They’d worked a case together last year in his capacity as an FBI agent. He’d been called in to help his cop cousin, Zander, with an illegal animal trading ring. Max was an investigative journalist assisting Caroline, her friend and the woman Zander would fall head over heels for, in gathering information about that ring.

  Together, they'd taken the bad guys down and rescued several illegally kept exotic animals, including a number of big cats.

  He lifted his head from the kiss and stared at her. They were both breathing hard. She looked a little dazed. He felt a little dazed.

  His hands were now sunk deep in her hair at the back of her head, and her hands rested on his hips. He had her pressed against the wall of Ellie's bar and was leaning into her. She didn't seem bothered by the position. She didn’t push him away. Or tell him to fuck off.

  “Do you bake?” he asked.

  It wasn't completely dark here. Besides the moonlight, light spilled from the tall lamps illuminating the parking lot in front of Ellie's. It was certainly enough to see the way Max’s eyes widened slightly. “I do not.”

  He frowned. “You don't bake at all?”

  “Nope.”

  Despite that answer, which was not the one he’d wanted, he dipped his head and took another taste of her. Her lips were soft, and she sighed again as he stroked along her bottom lip. God, he fucking loved that.

  He felt her fingers curl into his sides, and he couldn't help but tip her head slightly and deepen the kiss.

  He kissed her for nearly a full minute before lifting his head again. “Not even brownies from a mix, like the kind you get from the store, where all you have to do is add like one egg and water and stir it?” He was aware his words were running together, and he hadn’t paused once during that entire thought.

  She ran her tongue over her lips. “I don't bake anything at all, Spencer. That seems important to you, though.”

  He nodded. “I'm looking for a woman who can bake. Cook in general. But baking is a big deal for sure.”

  It had to be the moonshine that made that sound so stupid. Or maybe it was just saying it out loud. He wasn't sure he’d ever spelled that out for any other woman he’d dated. Or said it to any other person, for that matter.

  “You have a Betty Crocker fetish?”

  He frowned deeper. This made sense. It did. He was sure of it. Well, pretty sure of it.

  He needed to explain this. “No, I just really like coming home to good food. So I want to be with someone who can do that. So when I come home from work, we can have dinner together.”

  “You eat brownies for dinner?”

  “No.” He shook his head slightly. He would eat brownies for dinner. But he wanted other things for dinner and then brownies after. “But I like having brownies there.”

  “You are aware that that sounds sexist as hell, right?” she asked.

  He was aware of that. Now that he’d said it out loud. Even when he was drunk, that all sounded like misogynistic garbage. But it wasn't.

  He swallowed and frowned, focusing on her nose, determined to make this make sense. It wasn't that he had some old-fashioned idea about gender roles or that he believed the kitchen was a woman's place or that he had mommy issues, or… anything like that.

  He just thought having a normal routine at home was important for countering the not-normal, sometimes-terrible stuff he saw and dealt with at work. But he had crazy hours and didn’t get home at a decent enough time to be in charge of meals. He'd happily be in charge of other things, though.

  “I do laundry and stuff,” he blurted. “I iron my own shirts and pants. And I’ll do all the grocery shopping. And toilets. I can scrub toilets.”

  Her soft puff of laughter was warm against his lips, and it reminded him how much he liked her lips, so he lowered his head and kissed her. She gave another little sigh, and he was lost for a full sixty seconds again, tasting her, feeling her.

  This time he slid his hands from the back of her head, down her neck to her upper back, and then down to her hips, where he pulled her closer, pressing her against his thick, hard cock. This woman turned him on more than he could remember being turned on in a very long time.

  But she doesn’t

bake.

  He lifted his head. “I'm just not a very good cook myself. Or baker. Never learned. And I don't have time. I work weird hours.”

  She pressed her lips together. But she nodded as if she understood.

  Well, that was good. He needed her to understand.

  “I really like casseroles too,” he said.

  Again, that sounded stupid out loud. Why does she need to know that, Spencer?

  Well, if I want to marry her, we should talk about who’s going to make the casseroles, right?

  Could inner voices get drunk? He thought maybe his was drunk.

  Or maybe being drunk was just making this all seem stupid. Maybe it was a perfectly legitimate thing to say in the middle of a make-out session and made total sense to her.

  “Casseroles?” she repeated, looking at him like he was a dumbass. “So, baking again.”

  Okay, maybe it wasn’t just the being drunk.

  “Yeah, you know, like chicken and rice and broccoli. Or enchiladas. In my opinion, enchiladas are a casserole. Casseroles have multiple ingredients that are baked together all in one pan, and they make the whole house smell really good when you walk in the door. Same with lasagna. I will fight you on that.”

  Again, she was staring at him as if he was missing a few noodles himself. But he wasn’t. He was more than slightly drunk, but he was very sure about what he wanted. When it came to casseroles, anyway.

  “I don’t want to fight about that.”

  “Okay, good,” he said.

  “This is all very specific,” she said.

  “I think it’s good to be upfront and honest in relationships.”

  Her eyes went very wide at that. “I have never made enchiladas in my life. I can't even remember the last time I ate enchiladas,” she said. “And I want to be very clear about this point… Spencer, are you listening?”

  He nodded.

  “I have no intention of making enchiladas at any point in the future.” She enunciated that all very clearly. As if he was five. Or stupid. Or drunk.

  He scowled.

  That was not going to work out. He could not be this obsessed with a woman who not only didn’t know how to make enchiladas but didn't want to.

  He needed to think about this, but it was proving to be very difficult. He really should've stopped with one shot of moonshine. Not two. And certainly not five.

  Since he needed a moment to muddle through his thoughts, he bent and ran his mouth along the side of her neck. God, she smelled amazing. And the skin here was so soft against his lips. And the sound she made now? Ten times better than the sound she made when he kissed her. This was not just a sigh. This was a moan. And it shot heat from his chest to his gut to his cock.

  So he did it again. He dragged his scruff-lined jaw up and down her neck, placing kisses every inch or so. “I think I’m addicted to the feel of your skin,” he said gruffly.

  “Spencer,” she said again with a little moan.

  His name on her lips made his cock ache. He wanted more of that. Maybe he didn't like enchiladas as much as he thought he did.

  He lifted his head. “Do you like dogs?”

  She opened her eyes and blinked at him as if trying to keep up with what he was saying. “Dogs? Of course, I like dogs.”

  Okay, that was good. That was very good. “I really like dogs.”

  She nodded.

  “Do you have a dog?”

  She dragged in a little breath. “I don't.” The slightly dazed look cleared, and her eyes widened. “Is this another thing on your list for the perfect girlfriend?”

  He nodded. “Pets are good.”

  Dammit, this moonshine was making him sound like an idiot.

  But pets were good.

  “Pets are great. I don't have one because I have an erratic work schedule and never had a pet growing up, so I'm not that familiar with taking care of one. I didn't feel like it was fair to an animal to bring one into my life.”

  He frowned, studying her eyes. They were gorgeous. He loved green eyes.

  That was not something he had been aware of before this moment, but it was true. Apparently.

  “You never had a pet growing up?”

  She shook her head. “Nope.

  “Not even like a fish or hamster?”

  “If I had, I would've counted that as a pet, and I wouldn’t have said that I didn't have a pet growing up.”

  It occurred to Spencer that Max was possibly much less drunk than he was. And that she might be getting annoyed with him sounding like a dumbass.

  Thinking over the fact that this woman he could not seem to get over did not bake and not only did not have a pet now but had never had a pet, he absently lifted a hand and traced his thumb along her right collarbone.

  She gave a soft sigh at that too and seemed to arch a little closer.

  “What TV shows do you like to watch?” he asked.

  Before she could answer though, he lowered his head and placed a kiss where his thumb had just been. Even the skin on her collarbone smelled great and was soft. He stroked his lips back and forth along the spot and felt her arch closer, her breasts pressing against the bodice of the dress she wore.

  It was black.

  She was the only woman at the entire wedding in black. She could have just as easily worn this outfit to a funeral. But the color made her skin look even creamier. It was held up only by spaghetti straps, and Spencer lifted a hand and hooked his index finger under the strap that crossed the collarbone he was currently giving a lot of attention to. He pulled it off her shoulder, suddenly needing even more of that skin, and followed the strap with his mouth, kissing over the curve of her shoulder, then down to the bare, silky skin where the dress gaped over the upper curve of her breast.

  “Spencer,” she whispered hoarsely.

  His hand drifted down to cup her breast, and she whimpered slightly as he ran his thumb over the hard tip of her nipple.

  Absolutely perfect breasts.

  “Thank you,” she said with a breathless laugh.

  Ah, he'd said that out loud.

  Damned moonshine.

  He lifted his head. “It’s true.”

  “Maybe that's why you like me even though I don't bake or have a dog.”

  He continued to cup her breast. “Maybe. That makes sense. But it feels like more than that.”

  A tiny wrinkle formed between her brows. “Does it?”

  He leaned in to kiss her again. With his mouth against hers, he said, “Doesn't it?”

  “Kind of, yeah.”

  He kissed her deeply this time. His tongue stroked in firmly along hers, his thumb teasing her nipple, his other hand dropping to her ass—which was also pretty damned nice—and pressing her up against him.

  He wanted her. It didn't make sense. But he did. Badly.

  Her hands slipped under the edge of his shirt, and it was only then that he realized she'd untucked his dress shirt from his pants. She ran her hand up his back, and he shuddered at the feel of her palms against his bare skin. She moved around to his sides and then to his abs, stroking and arching against him and kissing him back with as much enthusiasm as he was kissing her.

  He was too drunk to take this any further than making out. He was aware of that. But this was pretty damned good. He knew he wasn't going to be getting over her anytime soon, and this was going to be a very nice memory to keep with him until he saw her again.

  Because, dammit, he was gonna have to see her again.

  Maybe when he was sober he could make some sense out of the fact that he wanted her so badly when she wasn't at all what he was looking for.

  The strap of her dress slipped lower on her arm, the front of the dress falling away from her breast. Okay, so that had required a tiny bit of a tug from him, but then he was lowering his mouth, dragging it over her jaw, down her sweet neck to that delicious collarbone, where he gave her a little nip, before continuing down to first circle her nipple with his tongue, then give it a little suck.

  This time when she gasped his name, it was not quiet.

  He felt her hands go to his fly and the button and zipper give. Her hand tucked into the front of his pants. Her palm skimmed along the flesh that was so hard it was nearly painful before he finally came to his senses.

 

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